I thought you would know that by the sheer number of times I shout,”I HATE THIS WHISK!” while using you.

You are my whisk. You whisk when I say. You rest when I say.

You are not a gymnast.

The reason you flip out of bowls is because the idiot who made you gave you a metal handle fifteen times heavier than your whisky-wire parts. So when I rest you in the bowl, your stupidly heavy handle flips you out, flinging an arc of pancake batter across the entire kitchen.

And all over me.

This is not ok.

So I am replacing you.

If you’re lucky, I will give you to my daughter and she will adore you and you will twirl and spin and dance while she pretends to make pancakes.

But know this, if you pull one more Mary Lou Retton move on me before I replace you, I will donate you to the thrift store where you will languish for years, rusting amongst the other utensils who disappointed their owners.